The Men of Confidence
by Buttons14
Summary: Slash. SpRace. As college roommates Spot and Racetrack both struggle with their feelings and what they were taught. A followup of my song fic 'I Think I Love You'. R&R!
1. What Our Parents Taught Us

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
A/n: this is a continuation of my song fic 'I Think I Love You' (chapter two) if you want to follow up you should read it first!  
  
**The Men of Confidence  
**  
Chapter 1: What Our Parents Taught Us  
  
**Spot  
**  
Ever since I was younger and lived in a rough part of Brooklyn I thought I was a leader. I don't exactly know how I demanded such a power over people, being small compared to my peers, but I never questioned my good-fortune in areas such as this. I never would have thought I'd make it far enough to make it into university. I mean, I always knew I was bright enough, but motivation is what I lacked in terms of learning.  
  
It seems strange now I'm sitting in my dorm room on my bed, surveying the whole thing, trying to remember if I ever imagined my life would be like this.  
  
Toronto is a large city. Not a large as New York, but the largest in Canada. Three months ago when the semester started I'd never been out of America, we couldn't afford it when I was a child. Now Toronto is like home. My roommate, Anthony Higgins, is out. He's a New Yorker too, but from an area in upper-Manhattan. He'd been to Toronto on many occasions. Anthony is the problem.  
  
I think he's out at work and I know I should be getting ready for class, which will start in twenty minutes, but I haven't moved since he woke me up at two o'clock this morning. I don't understand why he'd love me. Why he thinks he loves me. Most of all, I can't understand why I can't do anything about it.  
  
My mom used to say: "Simon, when you grow up you'll get far in life. You won't be stuck here in Brooklyn forever. You can do anything you want to do."  
  
And I believed her until one day when I was twelve and tried to fit a whole bag of marshmallows in my mouth. I got sick and puked all over the stained beige carpet. I guess Anthony is like an extra-large bag of marshmallows; I can't seem to get my head around what's going on. Anthony Higgins has me stumped.  
  
The difficult thing about facing Anthony with my problems is that he has the same confidence as me. I'm not used to not being the leader, it's just too weird that someone else possesses such power over people, that someone else can get people to listen so easily. I thought that was something only I could do.  
  
Last night, when I was lying asleep on my bed, soothed by the sounds of city streets and car alarms, he woke me up and gave me the biggest shock of my life.  
  
"Spot," he'd said, using my nickname, "I think I love you."  
  
I didn't know what to say, and he just looked at me helplessly, for once making me feel like I had the power in his presence, waiting for my response. But I didn't have one. I just stuttered and gaped as he watched. What could I say? Eventually he must've figured that I didn't hear him or something and rolled back over, but he didn't fall asleep because his breath never grew shallow and even like it does when he sleeps.  
  
The only thing I'm really worried about is how I feel about Anthony. About _Racetrack_.  
  
It's only November and the Toronto streets are freezing already. From the window behind Racetrack's bed I can see people bustling about, rushing to their jobs. If New York is the city that never sleeps, Toronto is the city that never stops working. Everything is always in perfect order, but at the same time jumbled about so I can't find my way.  
  
When I finally drag myself from bed I know that there's no hope of getting to class, I'm already late. The thing I want to do is call Racetrack and talk to him, to find out what he meant. What I do instead is call my girlfriend.  
  
She's out. She's probably in class. Her name is Kimberly Chastain but we all call her Cherish, a nickname that Racetrack made up for her. I swallow just thinking about it. Racetrack has become such an influential part of life these last three months. He showed me where to go for the best Bar-B-Q pork and rice lunches in Chinatown and he taught me how to bend the rules of the subway so I could ride cheaper on a student's pass. He introduced me to Cherish.  
  
And he loves me. He loves me. Racetrack is amazing, he should be every girl's dream, he's kind, gentle, nurturing...why am I so stuck on this? How do I know this about him? Do I really pay that much attention?  
  
I pick up a clean shirt I find on the floor and pull it over my head. It's kind of big and I realize it must be Racetrack's. He always smells like tobacco and—very faintly—of baby powder. That's weird because I don't think there's any baby powder in the room. It's like essence of Anthony. I sniff the collar and think about it.  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
The crowd in the coffee shop is unbelievable. Nervously I spot Cherish, Spot's girlfriend in the line and duck into the back room. How can I face her without blabbing everything to her? We were friends long before I met Spot and before she started dating him. I never should have introduced them, not considering the fact that I want Spot to myself.  
  
Amidst the smell of dried coffee beans and sandpaper I find my solitude. I lean against a shelf holding filters and for the first time in my life really feel like crying. I never cry in public and I never cry over physical things. The last time I cried was when my grandfather dies three years ago. Now I'm sitting in the back room of a coffee shop bawling my eyes out. Spot holds too much power over my emotions, I feel out of control and I hate it.  
  
Calm, cool, collected Anthony Higgins. _Self-assured and self-confident_ was what my report card used to read in the teacher's comments on the bottom of the page. Always. If they could only see me now! How wrong they were, I'm not feeling especially self-assured or self-confident at the moment. I may feel self-conscious, but that's a totally different thing.  
  
Simon Conlon can read me like a book. He knows exactly what I'm thinking, exactly how I feel about him  
  
"Never let the competitor get the upper-hand. If they know how the play the game you'll never get back on top! Mystery and deception." That was always my father's motto. He must have told me that at least once a day. "It applies to everything in life," he said. It was like the new Art of War, he was the new Sun Tzu.  
  
"I think I love you." That was a lie. I had lied to Spot. I _do_ love him and I know it. I can't not love him, he's so perfect. His eyes are so deep and so, so blue. I look at him and forget where I am. I'm not a man anymore, Spot's reduced me to nothing more than a little boy, a poor, lost little boy. I just wish he'd find me.  
  
My father wouldn't believe this if I told him. How could I have let Spot get the upper hand? How can I let him manipulate me in whatever way he pleases? I don't want Spot to love me, but, at the same time, I want it more than anything in the world.  
  
The November winds are blowing red leaves around the Toronto streets, catching students in updrafts of cool wind and branches. They laugh and hurry on their way, desperate not to be late for class again. I can identify with everyone at University of Toronto. I don't think they can identify with me, how could they? My life is rolling down a hill, slowly picking up speed and assuring that I'll never stop.  
  
I'm finally discovered in the back room by Dutchy. "Your shift's over," he tells me, "you have class, don't you?"  
  
**[End Chapter]  
**  
((What's you think? Should I add more dialogue and less though or what? Review to tell me! Or just to comment on random things, I love reviews!)) 


	2. Keeping Things To Ourselves

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
A/n: I'm cold! Halfway through typing this chapter I had to go wash my hands with really warm water because I kept stumbling over my words. Too bad, that. This the third story I'm updating in a row! I feel so productive! Go me!  
  
Chapter 2: Keeping Things to Ourselves  
  
**Spot  
**  
Across the room the phone rings. I reach for it but—being the small guy that I am—fall short of my target. I shrug and let the answering machine pick up.  
  
_"This is Anthony and Simon! We're not in right now, being driven to insanity by teachers and papers, but if you'd leave a message we'll get back to you. Especially if you're offering money." _The recording of Racetrack and I laughed loudly before beeping. I sigh and wait for someone to talk. Fulfilling my worst fears it is Cherish.  
  
"Hey Spot, it's Cherish. Did you call me today? 'Cause I was checking my history and your number was on it. Anyways...just call me back, I missed you in class today." I hear a dial tone and know she's hung up. At this point I am very happy that I can't reach the phone, I don't know what to say to Cherish, I'd probably slip-up and tell her about Racetrack.  
  
Racetrack. Who would have thought Racetrack? He's so...so...not a guy who would like me. Wait! What am I saying? No guy should like me, _especially_ not Racetrack. He knows I have a girlfriend. He's the one who introduced me to my girlfriend.  
  
He and Cherish were friends since high school. They knew each other for years. I'm going to be the one who looks like an idiot if I follow up on Racetrack's comment. That's probably why he said it. It's probably a joke. They're in on it together to make me feel stupid.  
  
This would comfort me if I didn't know it was a complete and utter lie. He said it and he meant it.  
  
I find myself staring out the window over his bed again and gazing at the giant maple tree outside. It is bare right now; all of its leaves have congregated around its base, looking sad and damp. They're just waiting for a snow to cover them up, erasing all memory of them. It smells like moss and faintly of marigolds. Something about smells makes me think about Racetrack, when I breathe in I can't help but think of him. Maybe it's because I still haven't taken off his t-shirt.  
  
**Racetrack**  
  
Bumlets and I walk down the street. I pull my jacket tightly around me and sink my head closer to my collar. I can see the tips of his ears from underneath his toque. They're red and chapped looking. Bumlets should be used to the cold by now, but he isn't. Strangely I am even though this is only my first winter in Toronto.  
  
He leads me into his house. It's off of Eglington in a small house with a neatly kept garden and a rickety porch. Bumlets still lives with his parents because he attends a local school and couldn't afford rent for an apartment on or off campus. We take Calculus together but he is definitely better at it then me.  
  
In the small living room that looks out onto the sidewalk that featured us a few seconds ago is his mother. I've been over before so she smiles at me and beacons Bumlets to her side. Mrs Flores is a short old woman. She looks many years older than I assume she really is. Her eyes are surrounded by wrinkles and her hair is a very brittle shade of grey. Her lips are constantly pinched but smiling. She reminds me of a storyteller.  
  
"Come here _Mi Vida_," she says to him, following her tendency to mix Spanish and English. Bumlets walks to her side and plants a kiss on her cheek. She grins and asks us about class. I think about how close-knit Bumlets' family must be. He's so respectful to his parents even though he's already eighteen. They treat him like he's still their little baby and he lets them.  
  
Mrs Flores chuckles and ruffles her son's hair. "_Mi Vida_, you're as sharp as a _látigo_!"  
  
Bumlets smiles and I wait for an explanation. "She says 'my love, you are as smart as a whip'." Bumlets looks pleased at his mother's comments.  
  
The tips of my mouth curve into a half-smile and I watch Bumlets and his mother talk. This is their ritual, everyday after classes Bumlets tells his mother about his day until she's pleased with his report and lets him go study.  
  
Mrs Flores lifts herself out of her chair and lumbers to the kitchen. In a matter of seconds she has returned with a tray holding three cups and a teapot.  
  
"How was your day?" she asks me warmly, pouring the tea for us.  
  
"It was fine." I don't think she wants to know about Spot, even though I'm pretty sure I want to talk about it to someone.  
  
She turns to Bumlets. "Has _el gato_ gotten your friend's tongue?"  
  
Bumlets shakes his head. "No Mama, he's just shy." Bumlets winks at me and I grin.  
  
"There's no reason to me shy _mi hijo_! I won't bite."  
  
"She called you 'my child'," explains Bumlets.  
  
My mouth forms an 'O' and I clear my throat. "I'm doing OK in classes, thanks Mrs Flores."  
  
She chuckles again. "No girlfriend?" she asks.  
  
A lump catches halfway down my throat and I stop breathing for a second. "No, no girlfriend." I take a sip of tea and wash down the lump.  
  
"Does that mean you like my son?"  
  
I'm confused for a minute, but Bumlets blushes and hisses, "Mama! _Shh!_ That's none of your business!"  
  
Mrs Flores taps him in the arm and 'tsks' him. "Don't you tell me what is and isn't my business!" and quite suddenly she switches into full-out Spanish so that I can't comprehend a word she's saying. Bumlets, however, doesn't seem to have any trouble understanding and keeps up with her in the verbal rally.  
  
Finally Mrs Flores turns away from Bumlets in mid-sentence and says, "My son is a _homo-ses-ual_."  
  
I look at Bumlets and back at Mrs Flores. "Uh...OK...?"  
  
Mrs Flores smiles triumphantly, smirking at Bumlets.  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
"Your mother knows you're gay?" I light up my cigarette and inhale deeply.  
  
Bumlets nods and sinks down the wall of his house so he's sitting on the perfectly installed brick mosaic. "Yeah, she's the first person I told."  
  
"And she doesn't mind?"  
  
He shakes his head. "Nah, but she had to take down the statue of the Virgin that was in our dining room. Catholicism doesn't approve of homosexuality. "  
  
"What about your dad?"  
  
"He's just happy to get out of church every Sunday morning." Bumlets shrugs.  
  
I exhale. It is very cold out, making the smoke seem more defined them it really should be. It is only five o'clock but it's already dark and the streetlights are on.  
  
"I should head home," I say, stabbing the cigarette against the wall.  
  
"Race? Are you sure you're OK?" Bumlets calls to my retreating back.  
  
I just nod and keep walking.

**[End Chapter]**

((So, what'd you think of that? Was it as good as the first one? Review and tell me what you thought!))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
SparkS- ha ha! I always win! But thanks for your opinion anyways, it was much appreciated.  
  
Coin- interaction will come; they're still a little iffy around each other. I have plans though...  
  
Pinky: to take over the world?  
  
Buttons: no, you idiot, I'm not the Brain!  
  
Strawberri Shake- ah yes, you're the fan of the SpRace, aren't you? Well, I hope you liked this. And I don't dislike Cherish, she's OK, I couldn't make people hate her. How could I with a name like 'Cherish'?  
  
Madison Square- I have a plot? Usually I just write and stuff comes. The plot usually builds itself; I never plan it ahead of time. Except for school assignments when I'm forced to.  
  
Erin Go Bragh- is your real name Erin? That's my...acquaintance's name!  
  
Parkranger- Race is only out of character because he's confused. I shouldn't have made him cry though, it seems so girly.  
  
Uninvisible- they talk, Race is just afraid of slip-ups. As is Spot.

Padsfootismyhero- thanks for taking the time to R&R! And look! I'm converting you to slash! Yay!


	3. The Difficulty of Swallowing Lies

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
Chapter 3- The Difficulty of Swallowing Lies  
  
**Spot  
**  
Racetrack came home late tonight, said hello, and lay down on his bed with a giant Calculus textbook. I didn't say anything to him and he was so unconcerned with me that I thought maybe I imagined him saying anything at all.  
  
"Race, did you mean..."  
  
He turned over and stared at me across the room. The light above his bed was the only one on and I squinted through the darkness.  
  
"Did I mean what? Spot, are you OK?"  
  
I nodded and swallowed. "Did you...wake me up last night and...and tell me—uh—anything?"  
  
"I didn't tell you—"he looked hesitant "I didn't say anything."  
  
I sighed and put my hands behind my head. "How was your day?" I asked after a while.  
  
"Fine," he hesitated again, "I saw Cherish at the coffee shop."  
  
"How is she?" I suddenly remembered the phone call and how I haven't called her back.  
  
"I don't know, I had to get something from the back room and didn't have time to talk to her." Racetrack flipped the page in his book and skimmed the page.  
  
"I didn't go to class today," I admitted, running my hand over my face. He looked up, shocked, and stared at me.  
  
"Why not? Are you feeling OK?"  
  
"No, I'm..." should I tell him? "Yeah, that's right. I wasn't feeling too good this morning."  
  
It was just a white lie but I could feel a pit at the base of my stomach. How could I lie to Racetrack who I thought loved me? Who I thought loved me. He doesn't really because I imagined the whole thing. Didn't I?  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
Spot was lying on his bed when I got home. It was already dark out, being close to ten, by the time I got in. his hair was rumpled and his face was smeared and tired looking. He asked me if I'd told him anything last night. I told him I hadn't. He thought he'd dreamt it. Such a thing he wished didn't happen to such an extent that he imagined himself out of it. And I let him.  
  
I had to lie to him. You had to have been there and seen his eyes. The pleading look in them that begged me to tell him that he was dreaming. I can't believe that he suffered so much because I told him the truth so I fixed it the best I could and told him that I didn't say a thing. His eyes filled with relief and almost ever gratitude. He believed me. He believed every word of it.  
  
What the hell was I thinking, telling him that I loved him? I knew this would happen. I'd lie to him for the rest of my life. What if he gets married and asks me to be his best man? What if he marries _Cherish_ and asks me to be their best man? I'll lie to God when I keep silent during the ceremony. I can't do that; I'm going to be lying for the rest of my life.  
  
But I've already started by letting him believe I'm only his friend, not his insanely in love with him friend. I just want to hold him, to whisper things of wonder into his ear as we lie here. The thing I want most is to feel his chest rise and fall beside mine and to feel his breath against my neck as he tells me he loves me back. So far the closest I can get to him is to be sitting across the room from him like this, and even at this point I can hardly keep myself from jumping across the room and kissing him, kissing Spot. Feeling his warm, smooth lips against mine. But I can't because Spot is straight and dating one of my best friends.  
  
"How is she?" he asks me of Cherish.  
  
I tell him the truth that I don't know because I was in the back room. I leave out the fact that I was crying. Crying over him.  
  
And he didn't go to class. He didn't go to class because he 'wasn't feeling well'. He's lying to me too now and it's entirely my fault. He's lying because I told him I didn't say anything. He didn't go to class because he didn't know what was going on, because he was confused.  
  
Spot's hand finds his stomach as he stares blindly at the ceiling. I match his movements and find mine as well. I rub it and push down hard, trying to beat away the guilt. It gathers and travels to one side, taunting me, daring me to chase it out. In seconds I am doubled over on the floor, throwing up.  
  
"Racetrack, are you OK?" Spot leans over me, but doesn't want to come too close. I look up at him and notice something for the first time; he's wearing my shirt.  
  
This makes me sicker and even though I try to nod and tell him I'll be fine I clutch my stomach and rush to the bathroom. Spot, can you see what you're doing to me? Can you see how much pain I'm in right now?  
  
((What do you think about that? I don't now why I made Racetrack throw up, honest; it was just something that seemed like it fit. Anyways, R&R!))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
Erin Go Bragh- my dad is a very lax Buddhist so he doesn't have a church. Maybe a temple, but none he attends. As for Bums' mom being gay, everyone loves it. I like Spanish. It's better than French. Well, not the Mizzies, just the language and the fact that I can't speak it.  
  
Coin- I had to go back and reread that paragraph. I didn't know what you were talking about. Now I do. Thanks! Bumlets' mom ROCKS!  
  
Strawberri Shake- join the club. No boyfriend on this end either. I think it's because I spend too much time on fanfiction and I'm not out there meeting them. No, that's not really why. The guys I know are...stupid. And nerdy. Yep...BUMS' MOMMY ALL THE WAY! 


	4. Looking For Something To See

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
Chapter 4: Looking For Something To See  
  
**Spot  
**  
Last night I fell asleep to the stench of vomit and Racetrack's moans from the bathroom. When I woke up this he was gone. I don't know where he could have gone in the state he was currently but his bed was made and the smell was gone.  
  
I lifted myself up and scurried to the bathroom, rubbing my head and trying to keep from sneezing. I only ever have allergic reactions in the autumn. Maybe it's goldenrod or just the way everything slows down in the fall. It doesn't help that Race's window is still open. That window. The one with the tree outside of it. The one that I stare at, but out of the corner of my eye I'm really watching Racetracks' bed. That tree, the maple, the beautiful, majestic, ancient tree.  
  
I pull Racetrack's shirt off over my head and throw it into the laundry pile that hasn't been disturbed for three weeks. The kitchen table is covered in The Toronto Star, opened to the World section, Racetrack's favourite. Beside it is an antique glass ashtray and subbed out in it is his cigar. The smoke curls up into the air and the smell wafts around the room. I watch a tendril snake its way to the ceiling where it finds its end and slowly diminishes into nothingness. I pick up the cigar and re-stub it out so that the stream of smoke is properly stopped and the room clears of Race's smell. With the absence of the smoke I can faintly sense the vomit again and gag slightly as I pull out a carton of milk and Cheerios.  
  
Someone knocks on the front door and I mumble to grant them entrance. Cherish pushes the door ajar.  
  
"What in heavens name is that smell?" She blanches.  
  
"Race was sick last night," I mutter thickly through a mouthful of milk and cereal.  
  
"Then where is he now?" she gazes at his bed, doesn't see him, and looks back at me.  
  
I sniff loudly, trying to ignore the tingly allergic feeling I'm having, and shrug. "I dun no, he was gone this morning when I woke up."  
  
Cherish sits down across from me and I realize I haven't seen her since I imagined Racetrack telling me he loved me. She's very pale, but not nearly to my extent, and has long light brown hair that she has pulled back into a high-ponytail. The pony-tail must be tight because it's tugging at her temples and making her eyes seem huge and glowing in the sunlight. She drops her beige messenger bag to the floor and slides the bowl away from me.  
  
"Are you OK?" she asks, "You didn't return my call yesterday." She shoves a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.  
  
I nod tiredly and sniff again. "Sorry, I was sick. It must have been a 24 hour thing." See how good I've gotten at lying?  
  
"And why the hell is it so cold in here?" she asks abruptly, pulling her denim jacket tightly around her. I want to tell her that if maybe she'd worn a sweater under her jacket and not just a thin lime green t-shirt she'd be warmer. But I restrain and say, "Race likes to sleep with the window open."  
  
She stalks across the room and pushes the window shut. "I know Racetrack, he won't even notice it's closed."  
  
I like the window open. I like being able to smell the tree outside and the moss and the marigolds. "I like it open too, you know."  
  
"Oh, sorry, it's just freezing! Aren't you cold at all?"  
  
I look down at what I'm wearing—my plaid pyjama bottoms and no t-shirt—and shrug nonchalantly. "Not really. I can't even feel it."  
  
I'm not lying either, I just can't feel anything. It's like it's all bouncing off of me. It's like I'm senseless.  
  
"Just put a shirt on, we're going to be late for class." Cherish pours herself some more cereal and pulls the paper towards her. She folds up the World section and searches until she finds the A&E section.  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
When I woke up this morning, about six am, I lay still for a few seconds, barely breathing, and stared at Spot across from me. The breeze from outside was pushing the hair from his face. His eyes were shut, so resulting in covering his eyes. It's a good thing they were or I'd probably never be able to get up again, I'd get lost in them.  
  
I poured lemon Mr Clean all around the bathroom and sprayed it with Lysol before reading the morning paper, having a smoke, and leaving. This all took about an hour and Spot still hadn't woken up.  
  
With no classes until ten I walked around the city. You never get bored of a big city like Toronto because it's always different depending on what time of day it is and there are always new things to see. On campus there is a large statue of some guy I don't know standing and staring off into space. I think he's a member of alumni who probably paid to have himself immortalized like that forever. I read the plaque screwed onto the marble base and it says that he has already died. He used to be the headmaster. I guess I was wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things.  
  
I venture off campus and into the city, searching for a new statue or something to look at. I see one of an angel reaching upwards, stretching away from the crystal pool of water at her feet. After this I can't find anymore and sit down gloomily at a bus stop. I check my watch and it's only seven thirty.  
  
Chinatown is the most active and colourful district in my opinion. After passing the art gallery you enter into the smells and textures of it. On a corner is a bubble-tea shop, Cherish's favourite, but it is closed and the heavy metal doors are pulled down, modelling their simple black graffiti. If I walk farther I come across the place I eat lunch on most Fridays, with the glazed Bar-B-Qued pigs and ducks hanging in the window. It is empty because it doesn't open for another half-hour. I ignore the temptation to wait and sample the Cantonese rice noodles and freshly made cold tea.  
  
I continue and turn off the road and onto another. There is another shop that specializes in Vietnamese cuisine that I find is open, though next to empty. Above my head a miniature train set circles on its track, an interesting show for a few minutes.  
  
The food comes quickly, as it always does at places like this, and I eat until I can't anymore, which isn't very much. I don't have much of an appetite. Especially after what happened last night.  
  
When I finish the streets have filled with people rushing to their office jobs around the city. I stroll down the streets until I find myself in Kensington Marketplace, which is behind Chinatown. Inside a deep costume store I find Mush.  
  
"Morning," I say, sitting on the stool across from the desk.  
  
He sighs heavily and looks up at me. "Morning Anthony. What's new?"  
  
"Couldn't sleep," I'm not lying either. I couldn't sleep. I was too busy thinking about Spot and getting sick over him.  
  
Around me are thick purple, red, and blue dresses that seem circa 1910 Cabaret. This shop, like all others in Kensington, is full of stuff like this. You can find anything and everything here. The variety is endless, costumes, candy, flowers, herbal remedies, even chunky jewellery, it's all found here. Mush sighs again and stares out the door.  
  
"What's wrong?" I ask. I've known Mush since the beginning of the semester when I came here to buy some clothes. I didn't know it was a full-out costume shop. I have never bought anything from here but I don't think he minds. Mush just likes the company.  
  
He shakes his head and frowns absently. In the back room someone drops something. "Fuck this damn box! Mush, I don't know why the hell we even have this. We don't need the god damn things, that's for sure." His brother, Itey, surfaces holding a large cardboard box of stark white notebooks.  
  
Mush blinks at him and takes the box, staggering slightly under the weight. "I don't know why we have it, it must be dad's."  
  
Mush and Itey's father is English, from a small town outside of Manchester, and their mother is from Italy, near Piazza. Mush looks more like his father whereas Itey, the younger, is a classic Italian.  
  
"Hey Race, what's up?" Itey spots me and grins. Mush disappears into the back.  
  
"What's wrong with Mush?" I ask.  
  
"Mush is just being Mush. He's being moody. He likes the attention." Itey shrugs and shakes his head.  
  
"Oh, I get it." Why would Mush need attention? He demands it wherever he went. In the eyes of a woman, any woman, Mush is gorgeous. People can't help but like him. This is the same, but different, from how I see Spot. I am in love and in lust with Spot, whereas the world is in love with Mush. Strangely, I don't think Itey ever noticed this. He and Mush get along fine as brothers, never really getting on each other's nerves too much that the public eye observes. I think Itey just ignores his brother's good fortune in the looks department and relies on his family and good luck to get by.  
  
I don't have any good fortune or luck. If I did I wouldn't be getting sick over love or lying to Spot because he thinks what I tell him is to far- fetched that it must be a lie. Mush and Itey don't know how lucky they are.  
  
((I'm working on the next chapter and I can tell you now that it will be my favourite! But, first, you have to R&R this chapter. Especially the 'review' part of it all! Thanks!))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
Erin Go Bragh- you're a little...schizo there. Can't make up your mind? Too bad! This is my story anyways! But I like that you enjoyed it.  
  
Padsfootismyhero- happy you liked it, despite the mild longing-slash-ness.  
  
Coin- who DOESN'T love Spot and Race?  
  
Rinity-matrix-13- heh heh heh, update fast you say? GUILTY! Thanks for the review! 


	5. There Can Be Chinatown Delights

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
A/n: so, sigh, here it is, my favourite chapter so far. Enjoy.  
  
Chapter 5: There Can Be Chinatown Delights  
  
**Spot  
**  
"Bon Appetite!" exclaimed Cherish, grinning from ear to ear as the waiter set the plate down in front of us.  
  
"Cherish, "Racetrack smiled, "this is a Chinese restaurant, not a French one."  
  
Cherish shrugged and scooped a pile of noodles onto her plate.  
  
Sitting around us were Racetrack's friends, Bumlets, Itey and Mush, Cherish's friends, Cricket and Spring, and my friends, Kid Blink and Jack.  
  
"Cherish," Spring flipped her hair and made eyes at Blink inconspicuously, "you're hogging all the noodles!"  
  
Cherish slurped noisily and grinned. "You should have been faster."  
  
I wasn't feeling very good. My stomach was churning and the din in the crowded room was making my head spin.  
  
"Sorry," I blanched slightly as the waiter brought another plate, green vegetables and scallops. "I'm not feeling too good. I'm just going outside for a minute."  
  
Cherish nodded before turning back to Spring and I walked to the door.  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
Spot stands up, tells Cherish he's leaving, and heads for the door. I watch him walk away, not knowing what to say to make him come back. Not knowing what to say to keep him from leaving.  
  
I glance around the table at everyone—who seem pretty happy with themselves—and get up too. No one notices, I assume, because no one asks me where I'm going.  
  
I push the door open and step into the chilly Toronto street. I see Spot disappear into an alleyway, hiding from the wind and maybe from me. I follow him.  
  
"Spot? Are you OK?"  
  
He's huddled against the brick wall, his nose is red and his cheeks are flushed and he looks utterly miserable.  
  
"I'm fine, go back inside. You must be cold."  
  
I realize that I left my coat on the back of my chair and am only wearing my thin t-shirt. "I'm not cold," I lie, restraining from shivering violently.  
  
I stand against the wall next to him, watching his breath still in the air and thinking about what I'd told him. Why in hell didn't I tell him the truth that I did say I loved him? I just let him believe that he'd dreamt it, that he'd made the whole thing up.  
  
"Spot, I have to tell you something."  
  
He looked at me and sniffed loudly. "What?"  
  
"I...you didn't dream it."  
  
"Dream what Race?" He sneezed softly and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.  
  
"That I...that I told you..." I kissed him. I kissed him hard on the mouth, trying to ignore the fact that he wasn't kissing me back. He was warm and I pulled my body against his, relishing the escape from reality for one second, savouring this moment that I had dreamed about for a long time.  
  
"Race...what was that?" Spot looked taken aback, but not disgusted.  
  
"It was how I feel. I do love you. You didn't dream anything." I swallowed and watched his expression as he took all this in.  
  
"You told me...wh-what about Cherish? What are you thinking?"  
  
And I realized he was right, I wasn't thinking at all about anything. Cherish had been my friend long before she was dating or even met Spot. I still wanted him. I still wanted him to love me back.  
  
"You don't..."  
  
"Race, what does it matter what I do or don't? What about everyone else? I can't hurt them like that, we can't hurt them like that."  
  
I really didn't care about 'everyone else' and Spot had said 'we'. As in him and me, as in both of us.  
  
"Spot, I—"  
  
"Racetrack, I don't want—"  
  
"Spot—"  
  
"Just listen to me for one GODDAMN time in your life!"  
  
"Spot, I don't care!!! I don't care what they think! I love you!" And I kissed him again. This time he just gave up and melted into my arms. I could feel his breath on my neck as we pulled away and I licked my lips, still wet from our kiss.  
  
"Spot, do you want to do this?" I asked quietly, slightly afraid of the answer I might get.  
  
He pulled me wordlessly into the corner of the alley, near a pile of cardboard boxes, and shushed me as he pulled his shirt over his head. I followed his lead and pulled my shirt off too, grabbing his naked body against mine and feeling how I always hoped I'd feel with him. I felt right, like everything was fine and I didn't need to worry anymore.  
  
Surrounded by the thick smell of cooking oil and the sound of cars passing in the nearby street, he climbed on top of me and kissed me slowly. Everything was right in the world just then. I knew that everything was going to be OK.

====================

We lay on the boxes, watching how the light reflected off the shining pavement and feeling each other's bodies of goose bumps and chills from the cold. My shirt lay, soaked, near a dumpster and Spot's had disappeared altogether. One spot of my chest, right above my heart, was warm from Spot's head and I watched his hair move slightly with the wind, listening to his steady breathing.  
  
"Spot, are you awake?" I asked after minutes of silence.  
  
"Hmm." He breathed out, covering my stomach in his breath and making me shiver. More goose bumps rippled across my body and he rubbed around my bellybutton, flattening them out.  
  
A voice called our names, breaking the spell and wonder of the night.  
  
"Spot? Racetrack?" Bumlets appeared at the corner of the alleyway and saw us. "Are you guys coming in?" he seemed unsurprised, like he'd expected this all along.  
  
I sat up, rubbing my arms to keep them from getting any number than they already were.  
  
"You guys had better hurry up. People will suspect something," with a grin, he added, "I don't see why..."  
  
((How was that? Sweet, no? Too rushed? What? I need answers! And reviews!))  
  
Shoutouts:  
  
OK, everything was out of order for this chapter and I got confused. I'm only doing shoutouts for reviews in chapter 4.  
  
Padsfootismyhero- thanks for the compliments!!! I wrote that in a sudden burst of inspiration. In reality I don't like smokers.  
  
Coin- THREE Chinatowns? I've been to dozens of Chinatowns! I've been to the one in London. It's cool. And I'd love to put that licking Spot all over thing, but it seemed a little crude...maybe...  
  
Erin Go Bragh- Does this chapter answer your question? I'm not sure what's going to happen with Cherish and yes, Itey was telling the truth. Mush was just grumpy.  
  
SparkS- you're sick? I got kicked in the foot and my ankle twisted and swelled to the size of a golf ball. Then I had to sit out two of my three games! TWO OF THEM!!!  
  
Madison Square- Cherish is just hyper-ish and controlling. And bubble tea rocks! There really is a place like the one I described in Toronto's Chinatown. Yummy! Bubbly! (I LOVE Itey!!!)  
  
Strawberri Shake- there you have it, my fave chapter! I always thought Itey and Mush would make good brothers. What, with the curly hair and all. I don't have a boyfriend because they're losers. I could, everyone is falling and chasing after me...  
  
Alex: LIAR!!!  
  
Buttons: for once, Alex is right.  
  
Trinity-Matrix-13- whatever, 'Trinity' 'Rinity', it's all the same. What do you mean I'm not updating fast enough? I update 10 times faster than you!!! Hippocrat! Heh heh heh (inside joke) 


	6. When We Misinterpret Fortune

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
Chapter 6: When We Misinterpret Fortune  
  
**Spot  
**  
"Goodnight," I whispered, releasing his hand from mine and curling into a ball.  
  
"Goodnight," he whispered back, kissing my forehead softly and turning over.  
  
If I lie on my back and look up as far as I can, I can see the maple, upside down, behind me. When I see it like this it seems smaller, more insecure and vulnerable than before. Above it, the stars and stretch out as far as I can tell, minimizing the tree to amazingly tiny proportions. Most of the leaves have fallen off it now, leaving the maple naked and small. It seems to shiver as the wind blows against it, whistling at the windows and chilling the streets. I move closer to Racetrack and sigh as I stare at the tree. It is so strong, yet so small and so trivial, like nothing about it matters in the world.  
  
It's weird, now I can actually look at Racetrack, but I don't because I'm too busy staring at the tree. Before the tree was my excuse to watch him, before I knew how I felt. Before I knew I even could feel this way.  
  
Something guilty is growing inside of me. It is creeping through my insides and clawing at my heart. Cherish. Who, what, why when, Cherish. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about her. I don't think Race does either, but he's given up caring.  
  
His heart is echoing in my ear. It beats over and over, sending spasms of sound into my head. It's like the intro to a song. If this were a musical I'd break into a song about my love for him. If this were a musical I'd lay and watch him sleep, singing a harmony about the joy of love. If this were a musical it wouldn't be real. But it isn't a musical and it is real. It's more real than anything I've ever felt before.  
  
The covers are twisting around my leg and I reach down and pull them back up, covering our bodies in the sheets. My foot hits his and I realized that they are icy. He feels warm all over and I feel so cold. A cold I've never before experienced.  
  
Racetrack's sheets smell like his shirt did, of cigars and baby powder. I lean over slowly and smell his hair. It smells the same. Why does he smell like this? Where does it come from? I only ever smell like soap and there's a good reason for that.  
  
My older brother says there is a reason for everything happening in life. We don't have the same father, but he acts nice towards me and treats me like his little brother. He's very spiritual and goes on Buddhist retreats all the time. My mother loves him, but doesn't agree with what he does with his life.  
  
"You could have been a banker! Or an accountant! You could have been successful and gotten us all out of this hell hole!" she says sometimes, when we're all together as a family.  
  
His name is Darren, but we all call him Dutchy. His daddy was a Dutch bar owner, who knocked up my mom and took off. When we used to live in Brooklyn we'd have to pass that bar everyday on the way to school. Dutchy knew it was his father's place but never once gave it a second look. Dutchy is the strongest person I know.  
  
My other brother is named Christopher. Mamma used to call him Ten Pin. When I was seven and he was two his dad split on my mom. I love her but she can't choose them very well.  
  
Ten Pin's daddy stayed with us the longest out of everyone who ever tried to be in our family. After him it was just Dutchy, Ten Pin, Mamma and I.  
  
I hated Brooklyn. After a while it became like a disease that you just wanted out of you. I felt so stifled and so trapped in the streets of factories and apartment buildings. When I was thirteen I started going to Brooklyn Bridge and watching the current below me, wishing it would wash away my problems. I'd go in the middle of winter wearing only my thin, all- seasons jacket and my corduroy pants. Mamma would wait for me on those nights and hang my pants to dry on the line so that I could wear them the next morning. They were the only pair I had that were warm enough for the snow. Brooklyn Bridge is history. It was the largest thing I'd ever seen for a while until I went to Manhattan and visited the Empire State Building.  
  
Racetrack grew up in Manhattan, staring up at the Empire State Building. Sometimes I don't think he knew how lucky he was.  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
We pushed our beds together and have curled up under the sheets. Spot is warm and I can feel his breath against my back.  
  
I am so happy. I don't think I ever thought I'd make it this far in life. Especially after knowing I was gay. I didn't think I'd even make it out of high school.  
  
By the time I was sixteen I didn't think I'd live to see two more years. I thought that either beatings or suicide would take my life before I'd have the chance to experience adulthood.  
  
I used to get beat up a lot. My sister would watch quietly at the side. My dad would scowl every time I came home with a black eye but never really said anything about it. My mom was always to wasted to notice.  
  
Dad used to tell me: "It serves you right. Those boys will beat some sense into you eventually. You just be happy that it's not me you have to deal with."  
  
There were times I thought about killing myself. Once I got as far as climbing to the top of the Empire State Building but discovering such an escape was impossible because of the smartly place barriers on the observation level. After my failed plot I just sat and watched the ant- sized cars below, feeling powerful over them, being so much larger and all.  
  
This was around Christmas time, I remember because I fled to the Empire State Building after the Winter Dace, running from the football team who threatened to kick my ass if I stayed around any longer. At the top of the building the wind was very strong, whipping my scarf around my head and pushing the snowflakes to and fro in the strong breeze.  
  
In the Manhattan streets I could see the Christmas decorations from where I sat as well as the taxicabs and overflowing buses. The brisk wind blew away all my worries for a few seconds and I felt normal sitting up on that colossal building.  
  
I didn't think one thing in the world could have more power than the Empire State Building. It was solid, and would never fall to the ground. Then I saw the Brooklyn Bridge. It connected people from Manhattan's fantasy world to the reality and harsh reality of the slums.  
  
Spot grew up knowing this power. He knew its strength. I don't think he knows how lucky he is.  
  
((That was the 'confusion' chapter. They each see the other's life in a totally different spectrum than the other. I like it! It's so...deep? Wrong word? I dun no, review please!!!))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
Strawberri Shake- it was a quest for love. Who cares how it smelt? It was hot! Whoo! Go SpRace!  
  
Trinity-Matrix-13- oops, sorry, you're right, 20x faster. Sucker!!!  
  
Coin- mm, me too! Unless, of course, I didn't know it was Race and Spot. Then maybe I'd be a bit freaked out...  
  
Padsofootismyhero- this, coming from the girl who doesn't like slash? Heh heh heh  
  
Bobcat:Slahsgoil- I agree, yum.  
  
Erin Go Bragh- whee! Lovely love!  
  
Italy- I guess you're right. I would be too. I'm super-impatient. 


	7. Why Do We Lie To Those We Love?

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
Chapter 7: Why Do We Lie To Those We Love?  
  
**Spot  
**  
Class has become so mundane. I'm bored out of my wits and I want to do something else. My brain seems to have been moving in slow motion since the night in the alleyway. I keep nodding off in class and thinking how much I wish Racetrack was here to help pass the time.  
  
Cherish. She's sitting beside me, but she knows something is going on. It's the way she keeps looking at me.  
  
She pushes a note across the desk and points obviously at it.  
  
_Wanna go for coffee after class?_ it reads. I nod and turn back to the blackboard.  
================================  
The coffee house was full with the thick smell of ground beans and dust. We sit in a deep couch and order our coffee.  
  
"Spot, I think we need to talk." This is apparently the most dreaded sentence in the English language, but I've never been happier to hear it. She was going to take care of my problem for me! She was going to dump me!  
  
I nodded and looked thoughtfully and concerned-like at her. "What about?"  
  
"Are you cheating on me?"  
  
My mouth dropped open. Am I cheating on her? Well, technically, yes, but does it count when it's with another guy?  
  
"Why do you think that?"  
  
"Spot, are you?"  
  
"Well, no...actually, kinda. In a way... I—"  
  
"How can it be 'in a way'? Spot, you're either cheating on me or you're not." Her eyes were begging me to say I wasn't, but her jaw was clenched in challenge, waiting for the possible blow to her ego.  
  
"I guess I am."  
  
Cherish's eyes welled up but her face remained serious and her voice was steady as she asked: "who is it?"  
  
"It's..." I glanced across the room and saw him. "It's Racetrack."  
  
She blinked a few times, as if allowing me to take it back and say I wasn't serious. I didn't say anything.  
  
"Racetrack?" she gasped in a disbelieving tone.  
  
I nodded. Racetrack watched from across the room.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have—I didn't—"  
  
"You didn't know? Cherish, I didn't think it was anything. He's just...I just...he's so..."  
  
"Perfect?" she finished my sentence for me. I noticed that she no longer looked like she was going to cry. She had completely regained herself and was almost smiling even, a bittersweet smile, but a smile nonetheless.  
  
"What do you mean?" Cherish was acting totally the opposite way I expected she would when she found out.  
  
"Spot, Racetrack is my best friend. He's the most perfect guy I've ever met."  
  
She stood up and turned to leave. "Just don't let him get away. Spot, you may have broken my heart, but if you're with him and you're happy it'll be all worth it."  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
Something made me look up. Maybe it was just pure instinct or maybe it was his aura, either way I was blown away when he walked in the door. With Cherish.  
  
He looked nervous, but slowly, as she talked, his expression grew from happiness, to confusion, to disbelief. When she got up and walked away it was the utter face of a man who had been spared. I waited for her to leave before approaching.  
  
"What's going on?" I asked, sitting down beside him.  
  
"We're broken up." Spot's face brightened as soon as he said it.  
  
"Why?" did he dump her? Because of me? Cherish wouldn't do that, she's too in love with Spot. Unless...  
  
"She thought I was cheating on her."  
  
"And..."  
  
"She knows it's you. She wants us to be 'happy'. She says," he blushed, "you're the most perfect guy I've ever met."  
  
The truth of Cherish's good deep was just settling around me. "She said I'm perfect? What do you think?"  
  
"You're the closest I'm ever gonna get." He pulled me in close and snuck a kiss.  
=======================  
I should be relieved about getting the worry and feeling of guilt over Cherish, but I want to go find her. We've been friends forever. Our mothers have bridge nights every Tuesday and attended the same rehab for alcohol abuse. She's always been my best friend and I repay her by stealing her boyfriend?  
  
I'm like the evil stepsister.  
  
I keep waiting for her to burst through the door and scream at me for stealing her beautiful Spot. What am I supposed to do next? I'm pretty sure that Hallmark doesn't make a 'Hey, it's your gay best friend here! Sorry for stealing your once-straight boyfriend who I introduced you to and who also happens to be my roommate from under your nose after we did it in the alleyway!' card. Do I call her on the phone? Should I ask her to meet me so we can talk? How can I console her when I caused her pain?  
  
Spot seems giddily oblivious to any problems and has proceeded in making our bed up with a queen-sized comforter instead of the two twin-sized ones we were using last night. When he leaves the room I pull them off and push his bed back where it should be.  
  
"What's going on?' he asks when he sees what I've done.  
  
"I can't sleep with you until I talk to Cherish. Just go with me on this, OK?"  
  
He nods, stupefied at what I've just said, and remakes his bed so that it's under a twin-sized sheet again. To my surprise he pushes the bed around so it's facing the window above mine.  
  
"I like the maple tree," he explains.  
  
It has almost lost all its leaves and this morning I found some in the comforter that had probably blown in the open window. They make the room smell fresh, like the outside autumn air and I turn to face the window. The tree is gnarled and old. If you look at about standing height you can see carvings that people have left behind as souvenirs over the years. Squirrels have built their nests in the inner branches, which are now bare and showing off the squirrel's handy work. Bird droppings litter the main base and it looks as if it's going to fall down any minute now. It may be distinguished in some eyes, but still hideous in mine.  
  
"It's beautiful, isn't it?'" he asks.  
  
That wasn't the word I might have picked. "Yeah, beautiful."  
  
((Liked it? No? Racetrack is confused. I had to do it, it keep the story going. Reviews!!!))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
Erin Go Bragh- THAT'S what happened with Cherish. I hope it answers your question.  
  
Madison Square- (blush) aw, you flatter me. I'm really not that clever, I just have my moments.  
  
Coin- they're such big things in New York, I couldn't leave them out!  
  
Padfootismyhero- and I do feel special  
  
Strawberri Shake- thanks for checking out my story. I don't know why Spot's daddy didn't stay around, it's just the way some people are. And I think you have mentioned you love SpRace. Several times. 


	8. It's Hard to Remember

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
Chapter 8: It's Hard to Remember  
  
**Spot  
**  
It's cold in my bed. Across the room Racetrack is scribbling in his notebook. Why does he need to talk to Cherish? She told me she'd be happy if it worked between us. Doesn't he get it? This is what she wants! Isn't it?  
  
I remember when I first met Cherish. It was after class one day in this very room. If I stare at the doorway I can still see her walking in it, just as she did that Wednesday in September. She was wearing a light blue tweed jacket, very European, and a matching scarf tied around her neck.  
  
"It's my Paris theme for the week," she'd told me later.  
  
The things that I noticed were her eyes. She was wearing her hair in a very similar fashion to the way she was wearing it the other day, tied back very tightly. They were deep and green and glowing. I remember looking at her and realizing that I'd only ever seen eyes like that one place before. On...  
  
"I love your eyes," she'd whispered to me on our first date, "they're so blue." Then she's giggled and sipped her drink.  
  
I remember the first time I told her I loved her. It was a month ago. We were sitting outside under the maple tree reading over our class notes. It was still warm for October, even though now it is freezing. A leaf fell out of the tree and I pulled it out of her hair and snuck a kiss.  
  
"I love you Spot," she said, smiling.  
  
I remember that I didn't hesitate. "I love you too."  
  
Why is it that easy to tell someone that you love them? I didn't feel any different after saying it, did she? I think she did. I can't believe that I'm this senseless. I don't experience feelings like other human beings. Do I really love Racetrack, or is it just a thing that I can say without meaning it?  
  
I remember when Cherish and I met her parents. They were visiting for the week and stopped in to say hello. Cherish's mother is very much like her, the same sandy blonde hair and startling green eyes. Her father is a very formal man, at least, from the impression I got of him, and is many years older than her mother. He has salt and pepper hair that he combs into a flat line across his head. His eyes are wrinkled and dead looking, contrasting his family's.  
  
"How are you young man?" asked her mother, "Simon, is it?"  
  
I nodded. "I'm fine. Nice to meet you Mrs Chastain."  
  
She laughed shrilly as if I'd made an excellent joke. "Please, call me Brenda."  
  
Mr Chastain glared at me and stepped closer to his daughter.  
  
What is it about fathers? Do they not trust me? I never give them reason not to.  
  
"People know how powerful you are. They know you were born knowing what you want to do: succeed. Don't become setback Simon, they're just intimidated," my mother used to say. Whenever she said this I wanted to tell her that in reality Dutchy was the determined and brave one, that I was just a bridge- loving coward.  
  
I don't think I need Racetrack to sort this one out. I think I need Dutchy.  
  
**Racetrack  
**  
The window is open, allowing the cold November air to waft through. I am buried beneath a pile of heavy blankets and I'm cuddled against the wall so that the light from a nearby streetlamp is just barely shining on my feet.  
  
When I lie here I am reminded about Toronto and what has happened since I've been here. I met Spot, I introduced him to Cherish, I met Itey and Mush, I met Bumlets, I fell in love with Spot. And now I'm here. What should I call this point in my life?  
  
"Call it what ever you want mi hijo, you're a bright boy. You'll find a way out of this mess," is what Bumlets' mother would say. I can picture her smiling face instructing me through my confusion. Bumlets' family has always been there for me.  
  
If I think back carefully I remember when we first met. It was during Calculus class and he was sitting in front of me. He was much taller than I was, and still am, so I couldn't see the front of the room, and hence his head disrupted my learning habits.  
  
"Could you move your head please? I can't see the board." This was the very first day of classes.  
  
He nodded apologetically and ducked down into his collar to no further obstruct my view.  
  
"Thanks," I whispered.  
  
Class began and I didn't say anything more to him until after when I agreed to join him as a study partner. We went back to his house and I met his mother who was the same as ever, except more cautious. She didn't begin calling me 'mi hijo' until about our fifth study session.  
  
I love Bumlets' house. It's so warm and always smells sharply of spices and faintly of tea and mothballs. His mother is usually in her overstuffed armchair and his father usually sits at the kitchen table and reads. Sometimes it's the paper but usually it's a mystery Bumlets has picked up for him. They are always so cheerful and seem to have a thirst for life, as if to grab life by the horns and demand the most out of it.  
  
"Tell me, what of my son's classes are you in?" asked Mrs Flores.  
  
"I take Calculus with him. But he's much better than me," I said, telling the absolute truth.  
  
She smiles when I compliment Bumlets like this. She really loves seeing him succeed in life it's like her hobby.  
  
The only family members of Bumlets that I've ever met are his three cousins. They are from Manhattan like me and seem friendly towards most. Their mother is Bumlets' mother's sister, making Mrs Flores their aunt. Their names are Sarah, David, and Les.  
  
"When I graduate I want to come to school here," I remember David telling me.  
  
Sarah rolled her eyes and tsked him. "I want to go to Brown. I've already applied and everything."  
  
Les just grinned and asked if I wanted to play swords. I told him not today, but maybe next week.  
  
"But I won't be here next week!" He pouted.  
  
I don't know where the Flores' have room to keep everyone, but they manage. Houses in Toronto, like most large cities, are small at best. Contractors want to cram as many houses into one plot of land as they can. The Flores' are the most giving people I know. If our relatives came down my father would put them up in a fancy hotel. Not because he's generous, but because he wants them out of the way and taken care of. It is usually misinterpreted as a good deed.  
  
I also remember how I met Mush and Itey, right down to the first sentence.  
  
"Do you sell...normal clothes here?" I asked.  
  
"Does it look like it?" asked Mush, who was having another smart-assed mood swings.  
  
"This is a costume shop," Itey informed me, "There's a good handful of us here in Kensington."  
  
Mush and Itey's parents are another prime example of what mine aren't. They're loving and cheerful, but can be a little wacky at times. This, of course, is all part of their charm and makes them more alluring than ever.  
  
Their father's name is Nigel Meyers and their mother's name is Katrina Tadesco. They decided to name each of their children with both of their last names, while changing theirs to match. Therefore the family name is Tadesco-Meyers and that is what the costume shop is called; Tadesco-Meyers Traditional Costume Boutique and Dress-Up Goods Store.  
  
Whenever Mush goes through one of his infamous mood swings, which I assume he's inherited from his mother, he turns to me for consultation. I don't really have anyone to turn to. I talk to Bumlets about Calculus, Itey about Mush and Spot about nothing at all. The surprising thing is that I never really noticed it until now. I never really noticed how alone I really am.  
  
((There you go, chapter number 8! I like writing about remembrance it's so fun! Is it OK that I made Bumlets and the Jacobs' cousins? I don't think it's been done before, and it doesn't really fit, but I wanted to get them in. Review please!))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
First off, I couldn't make Cherish evil. How could she be with a name like that? Exactly.  
  
Erin Go Bragh- the first thing I think upon reading that line is 'heh heh, Race is a girl'.  
  
Strawberri Shake- (stocks out tongue back) I guess Cherish is like a Sue in a not so hated way. She wants what's best for her little gay friends and doesn't mind that she's on the side. I'd let my two gay best friends be together. If I had two gay best friends.  
  
Coin- (Buttons bloats from compliments) I love being loved, and therefore when my work is loved. Thanks!  
  
Madison Square- they way you say the putting the beds together thing gives me a vivid image of Spot in vibrant pink hot pants dancing around the beds as he makes them. It's very funny, if not a little wrong. I have an overactive imagination.  
  
Padfootismyhero- yeah! Go Gabe! Did you see the Harry Potter movie (just assuming upon your name)? My friends did and were all 'poof!' and laughed, but I don't know what happened because I had soccer practice and couldn't go. (frown) that's to bad, really.

Oh! And a question, do any of you have fictionpress accounts? And if so, when you posted a story did you get an email about publishing or something? I don't know what's going on but some lady emailed me. I'm scared!


	9. On Not Seizing Love

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.  
**  
Chapter 9: On Not Seizing Love  
  
**Bumlets  
**  
So they're together and I missed my window of opportunity. I can't say I'm unhappy for them, because I'm pleased to see that they love each other so much, I'm just unhappy for my because I didn't take the opportunity when I could have.  
  
I've always been my mother's pride. I've seized life and made my parents proud, they accept everything about me and cherish every minute with me. It makes me feel like I belong and I never want the feeling to end, but that doesn't mean that I can't have new feelings introduced, does it?  
  
Anthony Higgins is the first boy I've loved. I've admired other boys from afar, but Anthony is the first one I've been friends with before discovering how amazing he is. I guess Spot is quicker at picking up about him because he took the chance with Anthony before I even had a chance.  
  
I knew that they were lusting after each other even before they did. I should have asked him out just then. I should have asked him out when I had even a haze of a chance. But then I saw them in the alleyway, tried to seem happy, and realized that whatever was left of the haze of a chance was gone.  
  
"Mi Vida, come over here," said my mother from her armchair the night I caught them in the alley. "What's on your mind?"  
  
"Nothing mama, I'm just feeling down."  
  
She kissed me on the forehead and gestured to the couch. "I'll make some tea and we'll talk, alright Mi Vida?"  
  
I nodded and sunk into the couch. She was so solid; she was always there for me.  
  
"Now, tell me Mi Vida, what's going on?" She stirred two lumps of sugar into the cup, like I liked it, and handed it to me on a saucer.  
  
"Mama, do you remember Anthony?"  
  
She nodded her head. "How could I forget him, nice boy. What's the problem with him?"  
  
"Nothing, he's dating now. I think they're in love."  
  
My mother smiled so her wrinkles deepened around her eyes and she peered at me warmly. "That's nice for him. What's so bad about that? Be happy for him Mi Vida, he's your friend."  
  
"He's going out with his roommate, Simon. A boy."  
  
"And, what's on your mind?"  
  
"I love him. I wish he were with me."  
  
"Mi Vida, just be happy for them. You'll find someone who you'll love too." My mother rubbed my head and smiled wisely. "Just have a good sleep and we'll see how you feel in the morning. How does that sound?"  
  
"Goodnight mama." I stood up and headed for the stairs.  
  
"Goodnight Mi Vida, sleep tight."  
  
Now, when I sit in class and stare at his ear, because he's still facing the board and doesn't stare back, I just wish he'd never met Spot, or I'd never met him, or both.  
  
It looks like he's concentrating as the professor so hard, but at the same time it's like he's bored out of his mind. Racetrack is a book that has yet to be read without a mistake. He's full of confusion. I want to figure it out; he's like an impossible riddle.  
  
Does anyone know him like the way he knows himself? Does Spot? I want to, I want to sit down with Racetrack and talk about him so that there's nothing I don't know. I don't want to miss one thing.  
  
So he sits next to me in class and I want to reach out and take his hand under the table, but I don't because he's with Spot and if he doesn't love me. I want him to at least like me in a way that he wants to spend time with me outside of class. The worst way to love someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.  
  
**End Chapter 9  
**  
((That was Bumlets' first PoV and I liked it. He's lusting after race! What a man Race must be...heh heh heh. Oops, sorry, dirty thoughts clouded the brain for a minute there.))  
  
**Shoutouts:  
**  
Strawberri Shake- I hope Racetrack has a...companion soon as well. He's so sad and confuzzled! And Mush can't be so happy all the time like in the movie, he had to be grumpy sometimes. My grumpy Mush makes up for all the over-happy ones ever written about!  
  
AlmatariofAdra- yes, Jacob is coming to school on Thursday, which happens to be today. I know you're very happy, but don't wet yourself. I had to make Cherish nice, what, with that name and all.  
  
Erin Go Bragh- no anti-depressants for Racey! He's clean! What if he took drugs and Spot snuck some and they turned into druggies!!! Ahh! That's...so weird! I refuse to give them drugs. Although, Spot could tickle Race until he feels better...heh heh heh  
  
Madison Square- oops, I did mean her eyes. Sorry if it was confusing. I love that you love this fic. It makes me happy.  
  
Padfootismyhero- hey! No fair! I haven't even seen it once! 


	10. We Need to Talk Things Out

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.**

Chapter 10: We Need to Talk Things Out

**Spot **

"Dutchy, thanks for coming up here. You really didn't have to you know."

"Don't sweat it, I had nothing else to do anyway. Mama's on my back about getting a job again. I told her I have a job, but she doesn't consider teaching guitar lessons a real job. She says it doesn't pay enough." Dutchy shrugged and sat down at the kitchen table. "What's your roommate's name again?"

"Anthony," I said, restraining myself from blurting out the truth about Racetrack. "He's an accounting major."

"Oh, that's interesting," said Dutchy insincerely. I agree with him though—accounting doesn't sound very interesting, especially the Calculus courses—so I don't say anything.

It was really nice of Dutchy to come down from New York to see me. He says he was thinking of coming down anyways, but I know that he'd have nothing to really see. I'm very happy that he's come just to see me.

"Wanna go out for dinner?" I suggest, pacing the floor nervously.

"For what? What's good to eat around here?" he asked. "But it's my treat, wherever we go." He waves his wallet in the air and I feel a sudden rush of gratitude towards him, on a university budget it's hard to buy food. I practically live off instant noodles and Fruit Loops. I love it when Dutchy's around; he's like my wall. There's no stopping him and he'll always help me when and if I need it.

"Want Thai food?" I know Dutchy loves Thai food.

He looks pleased. "Sure, I'm all for new things." I want to tell him that he's had Thai food before but I don't bother. He might be stoned and anyways, it's nice enough that he's willing to treat.

"Let's go, you'll love it." I grab my jacket and lock the door behind us. Dutchy looks different than he did last time I saw him. He let his hair grow out and into long blonde dreadlocks. They reach about his shoulders and as we walk he ties them back into a rough ponytail. His face looks the same as always, amazingly clean cut and pale. His glasses perch on his nose just like they always have. Behind them his eyes are as blue as ever. I think his daddy looked like him, because Mama looks more like me and Snipeshooter looks more like his father.

Off of Young street, near the Young and Dundas intersection, there is a Thai restaurant that I found without Racetrack's help. Above the door is a hanging sign, not unlike the ones you might find in an old Western ghost town or such a movie. It reads 'Salad King' and inside there is a slightly reddened light shining out. There is a line to the door, but usually service is fast and I'm sure a lot of the people are here for take out.

"Popular place, isn't it?" asks Dutchy pleasantly, glancing around the room with interest.

It is painted all red and has a very modern deco, having just been renovated. The table- and countertops were gilded silver and the chairs were cushioned in rich reds and purples. Saris and tapestries hung from the walls. Behind one counter was a cheerful old Asian man, taking orders and handing out menus. I waved to him and he smiled and waved back.

"That's the owner. He and his wife have had the restaurant for over twenty years. They used to cook but now they just handle the cash and costumer flow."

Dutchy smiled and nodded. "I like it here," he declared.

We were seated and handed menus.

"What are you having?" Dutchy's brow furrowed, going over the menu unsurely.

"I'm having the chicken Phad Thai," I told him, folding up the menu and waiting for the waitress to come and take my order. I had been here enough times to know what I wanted.

"I can't eat meat," he muttered, "What should I have?"

I'm pretty sure the question wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but I answered anyways, "Try the Vermicelli. It's just snow peas, carrots and noodles. Plus spices and everything. You can have it with shrimp or chicken too, if you want."

The room was filled with the smell of food and the sound of conversation. Though t was loud you couldn't tell one speaker from the next. It was so comfortable and so reassuring. Or maybe that was just the feeling I got when Dutchy was around. He was so strong, so brave. Dutchy has that way of making you feel like everything's going to turn out OK, no matter how bad things are looking.

"What's the problem? Why'd you need to talk to me so badly anyways?" Dutchy remembered the reason he was here again. He looked at me with an expression that assured he was giving me his undivided attention.

I began, what did I have to worry about? Dutchy could fix anything.

**Racetrack **

Spot was gone when I got back from class. There was a large suitcase near the door and at first I panicked, thinking that he was packing up to get ready to leave me. When I looked closer I noticed the tags on it that read 'Darren Conlon'. He must be Spot's brother. I pull the suitcase further into the room and put it on Spot's bed.

It's nice that Spot and his brother get along so well. I don't get along nearly as well with my sister. She dated the high school quarterback, this was back when the football team was the school's tyrants and the quarterback ruled them, and he used to beat me up. Well, I shouldn't say _he_ used to beat me up; he'd get other people to. It was like initiation. I don't think that there was one kid who was 'in' with them who hadn't kicked my ass around a few times. Except my sister, but she taunted me and almost encouraged these beatings to the extent of abuse. My father didn't care and my mother was indecisive.

My mother used to drink a lot. We'd go through three bottle of whisky a week at a minimum and I think I was the only one who was worried that she'd die from alcohol poisoning one of these days. My father eventually put her in rehab because her hobby was eating a hole in his pocket and he was sure that if he stifled the flame now it'd be worth all the money he'd be spending.

It was during this rehab stint that I met Cherish. When my mother was first admitted I was in grade ten. During many of her sessions it was mandatory that a member of direct family be in attendance so that we could help our loved ones through this 'difficult time'. Cherish was also from a high society family and Galesburg Recuperation Centre was the place to send your drugged up or wasted beyond belief relative. Cherish's mother was also there and, like me, attended all of her sessions.

"I think I know you," she said to me the first day during a break.

"Yeah," I adverted my eyes in the fear that she too would jump on me for my homosexual lifestyle. "I think I go to your school."

"I'm Kim. Well, it's actually Kimberly Chastain. That's my mother over there." She pointed to a tired and wan looking woman. Her hair was pale blonde and her face was sallow and yellowed.

Since then her mother has recovered and thanks to several vacations to Bermuda and a multitude of facial lotions she looks half-human again.

"Anthony Higgins," I grunted.

"I've seen you at school before, I think we have Geography together."

I nodded. "I'm gay," I said bluntly.

"So? Why should that bother me? That just means I don't have to worry about you trying to sleep with me." It was an awkward thing to say but she laughed anyways and carried through with confidence. It was different from the type that I had, so everything fit together so perfectly.

The next day when I was lying on the ground as two freshmen kicked me repeatedly in the stomach she saw me.

"Get off him!" she shouted, pulling them back and slapping them in the face. "What's the matter with you?"

I'd like to say that nobody beat me up after that, but it's not true. She did, however, help me get through high school. It's not nearly as hard when you've got someone backing you.

"Cherish, I have to talk to you," I said today when I called her.

"Is it about Spot?" she asked, allowing the curiosity to shine through undisguised.

"Yeah, it's about Spot, I'll meet you at the coffee house at six, OK?"

"No problem. And Racetrack?"

"Un huh?"

"I love you. Make it work with Spot, OK?"

"I'll try."

**(End Chapter) **

((There you go, it's over. Racetrack is talking to Cherish and Spot is talking to Dutchy…things are on the path to recovery…or are they? I honestly don't know. Review!))

**Shoutouts:**

Strawberri Shake- I don't like any guys who have girlfriends, so I'm pretty well off. On the other hand, I still don't have a boyfriend, though I do like someone…oh, he doesn't know. And if he does he doesn't act like it so he doesn't like me. Damn. So far Bumlets' mom and Dutchy are my favourite characters…yay!

Erin Go Bragh- yes, yes he does. Who wouldn't lust after Racey? If he were real, I would be!!!

Uninvisible- (rushes over and pulls you from cowering position) I don't mind. I just like getting review hen I can. It's OK, I get weird someti—a lot too. Oh, and I have a question, would you lick Racetrack's ear or make sure he'd brought a Q-tip to it first? See, I'm weird too, but I'd still like an answer!

Madison Square- 'Conflict' is my middle name! Actually, it isn't but I'm thinking of changing it.

Padfootismyhero- you wish! I own them! And all newsies in the world…

Coin- me too! And Dutchy!


	11. What We Think About It

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.**

Chapter 11: What We Think About It

**Dutchy **

My little brothers are surprisingly weak and timid for being so seemingly powerful. They both have an amazing sense of superiority over their peers and loved ones, but deep down they know nothing of what they do. Spot cannot take a single ounce of competition without falling wounded at the side, confused over the change of events. And that's exactly why he called me.

Don't get me wrong, I love the two of them like only a brother can, but I hope that someday Spot wakes up and realizes that the world won't part to let him pass through and take all he wants. It's shocking that he's made it this far without noticing this.

So far I think his roommate, Anthony, has taught him the most about this perspective of life. Spot's a nervous wreck and acts flustered and unsure of himself in a way only those who once owned overwhelming confidence could.

"Anthony and I are in love," he had told me over Phad Thai and vermicelli. "But he has to talk to me ex-girlfriend before he'll…do anything with me."

I'd never met him but I felt that Anthony must have a very strong character to be this mature about it. He was talking to Spot's ex before anything could happen.

"Your ex? Was he a he?"

"No, her name was Cherish. She was Anthony's best friend before they even came here."

So things started to make sense as to the reason of this need for a conversation over my brother. They were best friends. Anthony must receive confidence by the truckload.

"Always be proud of who you are. Hold your head high and don't let people get you down. You're a brave little boy, keep it that way Darren, baby," is what my mother used to say. I've followed her advice to the best of my abilities, such being the reason for my Buddhist beliefs, vegetarian lifestyle, and newly grown dreadlocks.

"They're called 'dreadlocks' because they're the locks that every mother dreads," she'd joked when I told her I was growing my hair into them. Snipeshooter laughed when she said this and I shrugged and ate my breakfast.

In big cities it is easy to do what you want and be your own person. People in the city are so much more open-minded and used to strange phenomenons. I can be who I want to be and no one will think twice about it. That's why I love New York.

"When can I meet Anthony?"

Spot looked up at me, obviously surprised that I wasn't making a big deal about him being gay. "Later tonight, he'll be home. His class ends soon." He signalled for the bill and by the time we'd made our way outside it was growing dark and the air was cold and bitter.

We walked close to the side of a building to shield us from the wind. Spot sneezed and shivered, pulling his jacket around him. It's amazing, the metamorphous between day and night. As soon as the sun goes down everything gets colder and more sinister. Frost forms on the windows under the cover of dusk in the winter seasons, promising a sparkling scene for the next morning.

"Are you cold?" I asked, noticing his barely less than violent shivering.

"How could you tell?" He laughed and sneezed again. "I'm freezing. It was never this cold in Brooklyn. Was it?"

"I don't know. It's been a while since last winter." Maybe the marijuana hadn't warn off yet. I didn't feel especially cold out here and I didn't remember what happened two hours ago, let alone two months ago.

"Do you remember when I used to go out to Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of winter?"

For some reason I did. This memory popped out of my clouded mind like a brilliant streak of yellow amidst the grey. I could picture little Snipeshooter waiting by the window for Spot to turn the corner. Mama would sit at the table, with the kettle on the stove top so Spot could soak his feet when he got in. I would read a book by the fireplace, feeding it to keep the room warm for them. As soon as Spot came in view Snipeshooter would jump up and shout. Mama would pour the water out for his feet and usher him inside. He would take off his pants and put on his pyjamas before settling on the only easy chair and easing his feet into the hot water. He would always ask me what I was reading.

"Will you read it to me?" he'd ask, always knowing the answer before it came.

"Sure." I'd begin to read aloud. Sometimes it was The Swiss Family Robinson, Tom Sawyer, Lord of the Flies, Sherlock Holmes, anything that I read I knew he was listening.

Mama would watch us, smiling. I liked when she smiled like this because we made her forget that we were a screwed up family and that we had what every other family in the world had: love and compassion for each other. She knew that we cared for each other and that made her happier then anything in the world. Even more than getting out of the 'hell hole' that was Brooklyn to her.

**Cherish **

Racetrack is more confused than I've ever seen him.

"Cherish, what do I do? I thought you loved him."

_You thought I loved him? Try I still do! You stole my Spot away! He's gone. Perfect frigging Spot Conlon. _My_ perfect Spot Conlon._

"I did love him. But you matter more right now." I bit my tongue from screaming at him for stealing Spot from right under my nose. How could he have done that? He knew I was in love with Spot, he knew Spot was mine. He introduced Spot to me.

"Cherish, are you OK?"

I knew my eyes must have glazed over, mush like they do when I'm not paying attention in class or when my mom criticizes me. "I'm fine. Have Spot. Just love him, OK? Promise me. Because hell knows that if I find out you don't I'll break your neck."

I know I was being harsher then I should be, but this was my one true love he had stolen. My Romeo. I couldn't let him go to a man who may not even love him. Who may not even now how wonderful he really is. Even though Racetrack is my best friend he can't take what was mine and leave me alone with it.

"Thanks for talking with me," I whispered, grabbing my bag and standing. I rushed out the door of the coffee shop. Sitting on the chair beside me was Racetrack, looking sullen and pale. How could he do this? He knew how I felt and he did it anyways.

As I left he called after me, "Goodnight Cherish."

I didn't answer. For once Anthony Higgins didn't deserve my wishes.

**[End Chapter]**

((How'd you like it? Tow new PoVs! Tell me what you think of Cherish now, she's a little mad a Race. Well, really mad, but I would be to if he stole Spot from me! On a sadder note, I won't be able to update until AT LEAST the 24th and probably not even. I'm going away to Montreal!!! Then on the 29th I'm going to Florida. Everything is explained in my bio! Please forgive me!!! Ah, and review too))

**Shoutouts:**

Madison Square- I don't think you can change your middle name, I was joking (I DO think you got that. Unless you're chronically slow or something) But I believe you can add a middle name. And you got Dutchy's reaction. He's too mellow to remember that he's ever had Thai food, remember?

Strawberri Shake- Dreadlocks!Dutchy (in my opinion) is hilarious. I can't picture his with a straight face. His hair is too blonde and all the dreadlocked people I've ever seen have had brown hair. Maybe in this fic he has darker hair…but then where's the Dutchy-Blonde-Loving-ness? Plus, everything I mention in this fic is actually in Toronto. Salad King, the bubble tea store IS right next to the AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario), the Vietnamese store with the train is real, the BBQ pork and cold tea place is real. So is Kensington. It's all real!!!

Uninvisible- (picks self off ground) My favourite is shrimp Phad Thai. If I were to lick Racetrack's ear it would go something like this:

Me: Race, when was the last time you cleaned your ears?

Racetrack: what are you talking about?

Me: when was the last time you cleaned them? Y'know, with a Q-tip or something.

Racetrack: uh...last night…? Why?

Me: Because (licks him) (manic laughter) heh heh heh, YUM!

SparkS- Hon, that had more to do with Les Miserables than it did with my story! It had NOTHING to do with my story! I'm mad at you now!!!

Padfootismyhero- (salute) I will! Soon! Yeah!!! Whoo!…I'm gonna stop now. 


	12. First Impressions Are Lacking

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.**

Chapter 12: First Impressions Are Lacking

**Spot**

I know he's talked to Cherish, but he's still withdrawn and gloomy. He came home, met my brother, and went to sleep.

"Is that him?" Dutchy asked me when Racetrack had fallen asleep.

I nodded and Dutchy looked at him. "He's not very friendly, is he?" he asked next.

"He's not in a good mood. I think he just talked with Cherish," I explained. Really, though, it's true. Racetrack has never been overly friendly to people, he's always defensive and moody. But that's what makes Racetrack 'Racetrack'. I can't imagine him being happy and perky all the time. Well, actually I can, but it scares the hell out of me.

The window is still open. Seeing as it's late November now it's not surprising to see several dewy snowflakes wafting down from the sky. Outside the wind is picking up and it's as though the maple tree is shivering in the cold. Racetrack just turns over and pulls his covers tighter, oblivious to the raging storm outside.

"It's really beautiful, isn't it?" asks Dutchy, appearing at my side.

I nod and sit cross-legged on my bed. "Yeah, it's amazing."

"Buddha says that the earth and all its creatures are the rulers of this world and that we live under their protection. Mother Nature is the almighty lord of mankind then." He has his eyes closed, but his face is directed towards the street. He doesn't suggest closing the window like Cherish did, changing the way that Racetrack likes it; the way that I like it.

"Where do you learn this stuff Dutchy?"

He smiles sleepily and pulls a cigarette from his pocket. "I read books. You really should read some, it makes life seem so much more worthwhile." He lights up and takes a puff, sending a cloud of smoke around the room.

I want to ask how nature ruling you would make you feel worthwhile, but I know there must be a very obvious reason for this so I don't. I just watch the tree, swaying in the wind, as if it's dancing for Dutchy and me. It's a…

"Ballet. It's like poetry of the earth," Dutchy says, smiling sleepily again. He watches the tree and puffs on his cigarette. I realize that the smell is much sweeter than Racetrack's occasional cigar. I conclude it must be marijuana, thus explaining the sleepy way Dutchy is doing everything. Dutchy's gaze has turned back to Racetrack, who is lying asleep in his bed, sprawled around and muttering.

"I wonder what he's dreaming about," I ponder aloud, not afraid of criticism because it's Dutchy and we share everything.

"I don't know. Maybe about life. I think I dream about life."

I've been around people who are high before and they don't act at all like Dutchy is right now. He's calm and wizened, not giddy and idiotic. He seems so deep and knowing in the moonlight like this and I realize that the lights are still off for reasons I don't know. Dutchy looks older with his hair in dreadlocks more mature and travelled in a way even though I know he has never left the continent. He takes off his glasses and puts them down on my bedside table.

"Where am I supposed to sleep?" he asks. "I'm sure you have class tomorrow."

I nod deftly and work on blowing up an air mattress for him.

In the bathroom he brushes his teeth, leaving his joint out on the table, still burning steadily. Racetrack is mumbling softly in his sleep and I strain to hear his words, but behind Dutchy's fervent brushing and the constant tap running I can't make out a word.

"Goodnight Spot." Dutchy pulls the covers over himself.

"Goodnight." I turn over and stare at Racetrack across the room. _He'll talk to me tomorrow. He has to._

**Racetrack **

The lights are off when I reach the dorm, but Spot and his brother are sitting awake at the kitchen table. What compels Spot to do things like this? Sit in the dark at the table.

His brother is taller than us and possesses pale blonde dreadlocks and a hungry aura of sweet smoke and hemp.

I don't notice these things immediately because I'm still thinking about what Cherish said to me. Why am I such an idiot? Couldn't I see how happy she was? I always ruin everything.

I do want to make it work, I want to make it work more than anything in the world, but how can I do that without screwing another thing up? It's a lose-lose situation. Cherish is my world, but Spot is the person who makes such a world worth living. How am I supposed to choose? Without one or the other I'm doomed. Maybe I should leave everything alone and hope it goes back to like it was before.

_Why are you so unsure? What's wrong here? Take control boy! Show them what it means to be a Higgins!_ He's not even here and he's still bossing me around. He's always here when I want to figure things out on my own, and always gone when I need him. Where's my father when things are fire? Why would he show up now and confuse me?

**[End Chapter]**

((That's that! I'm updating! Glad you could all hold yourselves and (even though I haven't yet been asked) I had a great time in Montreal. You should go! Especially to Old Montreal, it's so pretty!))

**Shoutouts: **(how I missed doing these…)

Padfootismyhero- how could Cherish be totally fine with it? That'd be to Sue-ing it! It just cannot be so! She had to be…disgruntled…?

Uninvisible- sorry, I did go away. But I can back and brought inspiration and updates! As for the stereotype thing, I don't know many stoner/vegetarian/dreadlock dudes so I just had to use a stereotype. It's the only way I could go! Maybe you're the real life Cherish. Everyone has a twin! Cherish it yours! (manic laughter)

Strawberri Shake- I went there two years ago and it only rained once: on New Years Eve. I met a guy who looked like Specs! I took his picture. I think you knew that already… I love POTC! Johnny Depp is so good in that movie!

Coin- I can picture Cherish slipping into Race and Spot's dorm with a chainsaw and chopping off their heads. Ahh! Mountie is brainwashing me, now I think about violence all the time! But I hate Mary-Sues too, they bug me. I realized this about Cherish and I'm going to pull her out of the deep tar hole that is Sue-ness.


	13. Trees Ruin Everything

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.**

Chapter 13: Trees Ruin Everything

**Spot **

My brother's still here. We stayed up most of the night talking about the tree. We understand each other in a way. He sees the maple in the same way as I do. It's majestic and regal. It's humbling, I like the feeling that it gives me, like my problems aren't so huge as I thought them to be.

How can a tree do that?

Dutchy left early this morning to find somewhere that'd sell him a cheap book on Buddhism and probably find a guy with some marijuana.

So all alone in the dorm were Racetrack and I.

"What do you think about the tree?" I asked him, even though I'd asked him before.

"It's nice," he said, but in a very unconvincing tone.

"Really, I want to know what you think about it. In your words. What do you think about it?"

"Honestly?" he looked up from the paper at me.

I nodded.

He looked out the window to the tree, which was now more beautiful than ever because it was covered in a thin layer of frost.

"It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

**Racetrack **

His face fell.

"Are you serious?"

What was the big deal? It was just a tree; an ancient, beat up, disgusting tree.

I nod meekly, now regretting telling him that it was ugly.

"How can you say that? Do you really think that? Look at it!" he demanded. "Look at it properly. Can you see it?"

"Spot, the damn thing is covered in bird crap and it's falling apart. The bark's peeling off and the branches are falling off. It's not even nice to look at. On any level."

Spot looked at me for a long time after I said this.

I got up and shut the window for the first time all term. "I have to get to work."

"We need a break," he told me as I turned.

I didn't have anything to say to that so I kept walking. How can everything be ruined by just a stupid tree?

_(Three and a half years later)_

Love is a fragile thing. It you're not careful it will fall of the table and break on the floor like glass. You need to constantly keep it cushioned in the ribcage that is your chest.

After that day in my fist year of university I've managed to pick up most of the pieces and fit them together. Slowly, with the help of friends, I swallowed it down so it now sits in my chest again, intact, but ready to be broken.

Cherish has been my best friend the last three and a half years and Bumlets has helped me through it. I didn't know he liked me, he told me two weeks after I moved out of my dorm room. He's the sweetest guy I've ever met, he understands everything I say and never rushed me to anything. I asked him out.

So life seems to be going well for me, but something inside reminds me of the passion I felt for Spot. It's the kind of thing I haven't felt for anyone else, not even Bumlets, even though I'm sure I love him.

In a week I'm graduating from Advanced Calculus with Bumlets, who is graduating Valedictorian. His mother's really happy for him and she's really happy for us.

None of my family is coming down to see me, but that doesn't surprise me. I wasn't anticipating it anyways. Another thing I wasn't anticipating was Spot coming, but I still wish he would.

I see him sometimes, hurrying to class. I doubt he notices me. Cherish has stayed in touch with him and says he still asks about me every now and then. She says she tells him I'm fine.

"He asked me again about you today," she told me earlier this morning.

"How's he?" I ask.

She shrugs and tells me he has a new boyfriend. Another one. Maybe it wasn't my fault, maybe Spot just can't settle down.

**Spot **

The tree was cut down in my third year here.

"It's a hazard," a city worker told me. "It's over a hundred years old, it'll fall down any time and might fall onto someone or onto a building."

So Racetrack was right, it was going to fall down any second.

Cherish tells me he's fine and that now he's going out with his friend Bumlets, the first one to know about Racetrack and I in first year.

I wish I could see him, I still wish things worked out. No one I've ever met compares to Racetrack. It's the way he makes me feel and now I hold everyone to that standard. Racetrack and I had love. I can't seem to find that again. It was so easy for us and now everything else is so hard.

I know he's graduating from Advanced Calculus next week, and I wish I could go. I don't think he wants me though. He'll probably become an accountant.

After I graduate from World History I'm going to teaching college. I never though I'd be a teacher, I was always one of those kids that teachers hated. I guess that means I'll know all the tricks.

So we're both getting behind the desk jobs.

"If you make a difference in somebody's life for the better you're very lucky," Dutchy told me after Racetrack and I broke up.

Racetrack has changed mine, he taught me what love feels like.

I was in the library when I saw him tonight, at around eleven o'clock.

"Can I sit here?" I asked.

He didn't even look up, but nodded anyways.

I sat down. "Remember me?" I queried.

He jerked his head up at me. I look of surprise shot over his face. "Oh, Spot hi."

**End Chapter **

((I hope that wasn't weird, seeing as I skipped over so many years and all. Did you miss me and this fiction? I think it's coming to an end soon, please review!))

**Shoutouts:**

Strawberri Shake- sorry, this went almost the opposite direction that you thought…we didn't go out on new Years, it rained a lot and my dad laughed at people caught in the rain from the hotel. We were at Disney for Independence Day and it was very hectic.

C.M. Higgins- hurried as fast as I could. Hope you like it!

Coin- oops. Sorry. Don't hate me for what I've done to the boys!

Madison Square- I'm sleepy too, I woke up at almost noon today…


	14. Everything Happes For a ReasonNothing La...

**Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.**

Chapter 14: Everything Happens For A Reason/Nothing Lasts Forever

Racetrack 

And all of a sudden he's in front of me. Standing there and watching.

"Oh, Spot, hi." Is all I can manage.

He smiles, as if happy to see me. I want to ask him how he's been, as if I haven't talked to him in a week, not three years.

"Can I sit down?" he asks boldly, pulling out the chair and taking a seat before I can answer.

He looks like I remembered, except more muscular and a little taller. He looks good.

He sits and orders a drink. Bastard. He's still as confident as ever, allowing me to feel small compared to him.

I'm mad at him. How can he do this? Come and sit next to me and order a drink, acting like nothing's wrong? Why did I love him in the fist place? He's so arrogant, so…

"I hear you're going out with Bumlets now," he says out of the blue, smirking slightly.

_Don't think he's as good as you? At least he wouldn't leave me because of a stupid tree. Differences make life interesting!_ I want to yell, but restrain myself and answer. "Yeah. We're very happy together." 

Is it just me, or does he flinch when I say this? Does it matter that much to him?

"That's…good."

We sit in an uncomfortable silence for a while. He stirs his coffee around in his cup and I turn back to my paper, though not reading the words.

"Do you still read the World section daily?" he asks, smiling in sweet remembrance. "It was always your favourite, remember?"

Do I remember? How does he remember? Is he trying to drudge up the past? What's his plan here exactly?

But I don't say anything, knowing that he remembers this about me forms a knot in my throat. I swallow nervously to get it out. _Oh crap, I can't feel this way for him. I'm happy without him. _

Seeing him sitting like that in front of me and looking so good makes me remember why I liked him in the first place. It's the way he makes me feel. It's different then the way I feel with Bumlets. With Bumlets it's sweet, with Spot it's bittersweet.

"Do you," am I really going to do this? "want to come to my graduation next week? From Advanced Calculus. I'd be nice, Cherish will be there."

He nods. "Sure. That'd be nice."

And he's smiling, like he's sincerely looking forward to it.

Spot 

So he's invited me to his graduation. Maybe things aren't really dead: maybe they're as good as ever. Maybe this is my chance.

Seeing Racetrack makes me believe, it makes me really, truly believe, that loveless love is gone. Sure, there are obstacles, and I don't know for sure what I'm going to do. I don't have a game plan yet. Do I even know if he feels for me? Maybe I was invited out of pity or politeness. But I'll take it anyways, it's an opportunities and 'everything happens for a reason'.

**Bumlets**

"OK graduates, this is your big night! Just relax and have good time! The trip is over and it's time to enjoy the rest of the journey!"

We applauded and lined up for the procession into the ceremony hall.

The presenter and chairperson called names and in no time they were at: "Flores, Dominic."

"Mr Flores is also graduating top of the class and as valedictorian."

In the front row my mother cheered loudly. Beside her my father applauded politely.

I scammed the crowd, trying to recognize the smiling faces and relate them to my peers.

Sitting near the back, not even watching me, but instead Racetrack, was one Spot Conlon.

Good things don't last forever. You'll have to say goodbye sometime.

Goodbye Anthony Higgins. I'll love you…

**End**

((Woot! It's over! It's my first non-song fic that's been ended goodly-ish. Please review this last chapter especially and tell me if you like it. It's bittersweet, my new favourite word!))

**Shoutouts: **

Erin Go Bragh- well, as you see here, not much more. I hope you liked it anyways.

Coin- I'm glad to be missed. It makes me loved!!!

C/M. Higgins- I hurried especially fast. Just for you (well, not really, I wanted to finish. But we'll say you're the reason, OK?)


End file.
